From Stockholm, With Love
by Chirugal
Summary: Spoilers for Truth or Consequences - Abby/Ziva fic. "She’s alive, but she’s damaged. I don’t know what’s happened while she’s been out there, but it’s taken its toll on her, and now she seems barely connected to her own consciousness..." In progress.
1. Debriefing

**Title**: From Stockholm, With Love  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: _Aliyah, Truth or Consequences  
_**Summary**: She's alive… but she's damaged. I don't know what's happened while she's been out there, but it's taken its toll on her, and now she seems barely connected to her own consciousness…

**Author's Note**: The final scene was just so heartbreakingly Zabby-ish that I had to write this. I'd been meaning to return to Zabby recently, and the season seven opener gave me the perfect opportunity. ^_^ I've chosen to disregard the canon of 7x02, so that I can put my own spin on things. Obvious disclaimer – this is femmeslash-y. Don't like it? Don't bother to read.

* * *

Staring blankly at my computer screen, I smother a wide yawn with one hand and reach for the Caf-Pow! on the desk. I spent all night awake again, alternately worrying and mourning. Gibbs, Tony and McGee left on Operation: Avenge Ziva five daysago, and I've been trying to lay our absent team member to rest in my mind since a couple of days before that.

Ziva's dead, I know that. I've been trying to reach her ever since she didn't come back with the rest of the team, by phone, email, GPS tracking, tapping into satellite feeds… I've even spent hours in meditation, trying to clear my mind enough to reach her telepathically.

Tony was joking when he mentioned it, but I can always feel certain people at the back of my mind, like thin threads woven into my subconscious. Of Gibbs' team, only he and Ziva register on my psychic radar, not strongly enough for actual communication, but just to feel their presence. Distance doesn't seem to factor in: I've been able to faintly feel Gibbs the whole time he's been gone, and been thankful for it.

Ziva, though… I lost my sense of her a couple of months back, and ever since I've prepared myself for the worst. When Gibbs confirmed it, I just took it with a whispered 'oh', and shut down to autopilot for the rest of the day, denying myself tears.

When I got home that night, I cried until my throat was raw and my head pounded, and started to force myself to accept the truth. I'll never see her again, never hug her – just when she'd seemed to be adjusting to it – and never again conspire with her to tease Tony and McGee with hints that we're more than friends.

Which we weren't. In the back of my mind I'd always hoped, but although she's admitted to me in private that she's been with women romantically before, she's always been so fixated on Tony that I never pushed our relationship in that direction.

And now I'll never get the chance.

My phone rings, and my heart skips an anxious beat when the caller ID tells me it's Gibbs' cell. "Gibbs? Are you back? Where are you? Are Tony and McGee okay? Did you get the guy?"

"Calm down, Abbs," the tolerant voice on the other end of the connection instructs. "We're all fine. We'll be back at the Navy Yard in five minutes or so."

He hasn't answered the vital question, though. "You did get him, right?"

"We got him," Gibbs confirms with grim satisfaction. "Back soon, Abbs."

Before I can say anything else, he ends the call, and I sigh with relief that at least all three of them did what they had to and came back safely. I think Ziva would appreciate the sentiment… but thinking of her is just gonna hurt right now, and I have my team to welcome home.

After a quick call to Ducky, I go up to the squad room to wait. Gotta put on my happy face, give them big hugs of welcome, make sure I don't make it onto anyone's list of things to worry about…

Ducky arrives a minute or two after I do, and though we smile and chat as normal, there's an undercurrent of tension to the conversation. I don't think either of us will relax until we've seen for our own eyes that everyone got through it unscathed.

The elevator arrives, and Ducky and I turn, our conversation forgotten. No one emerges at first, but then Gibbs walks into view, and oh my god, he's wounded-

I've only taken a couple of steps forward when a second figure enters the office, and my entire body goes numb with shock.

_Ziva…_

She's exhausted and bruised; her lips are chapped, and her hair tousled and greasy. Her eyes are unfocused, as if nothing around her seems real to her. But it's her, it's really her!

I'm so stunned that I barely register Gibbs squeezing my hand on his way past me. Someone's started applauding, and now everyone else is joining in, but I can't make myself smile or co-ordinate my hands to do the same.

I reach her, and she turns her haunted gaze upon me, seeming not to recognise me for a second. Then the corners of her lips turn up in an almost imperceptible smile, and I carefully reach out and stroke my hand down her cheek, confirming that she's real.

Her flesh is warm and soft under my fingers, and a knot of doubt unravels itself within my chest. Alive. She's alive… but she's damaged. I don't know what's happened while she's been out there, but it's taken its toll on her, and now she seems barely connected to her own consciousness.

What the hell was Gibbs thinking, bringing her here? She needs hot chocolate and hugs and a bubble bath and a bed…

Carefully, I put my arms around her, trying to offer comfort without hurting her. It's so different from the last time I welcomed her home… I'd yelled happily and bounced up and down and squeezed the air from her lungs, then. Now I'm scared to hold her too tightly in case I break her – I never thought Ziva could look fragile, but she seems so brittle right now.

She tenses for a split-second, but then relaxes, resting her head against mine and her chin on my shoulder. Usually she pulls away after a couple of seconds, but she's content to let me hold her today, and that scares me a little. I don't wanna let go of her, so I don't, even after the applause around us has subsided and the office bustle has resumed. Everyone seems to know to leave Ziva alone for now – I don't think they've ever seen her like this, either.

"Abigail… May I?"

Ducky's voice is amused, and I reluctantly release Ziva, smiling a little. "Stay at my place tonight."

She nods unspoken gratitude, then turns her attention elsewhere. "Hello, Ducky."

They hug briefly, and then Ducky begins checking her injuries, despite her protest that she was examined in the field. I hover around them for a couple of seconds before turning my attention to Tony and Tim.

"Ouch! Timmy, are you okay?" Now that I've processed – well, halfway processed – Ziva's presence, other concerns work their way into my brain again.

He smiles, then winces as the movement twinges one of his bruises. "Got beat up a little in the line of duty."

I hug him with less restraint than I used with Ziva, then turn to Tony, who looks almost as roughed up as McGee. His eyes are on Ziva, and I step into his line of sight, leaning over his desk to embrace him. "Tony…"

"Hey, Abbs. Would've brought some sodium pentothal home for ya, but it all went into my vein."

God… sodium pentothal? I spin to face Gibbs, scowling. "Why have you brought them here? They need sleep, and showers, and… and chicken soup!"

Behind me, Tony sighs. "I personally would just take a massage from Catherine Zeta Jones…"

Gibbs meets my gaze steadily. "Need to debrief the Director. All of us."

I guess that makes sense. I give him his welcome-home hug, squeezing tightly. "Why didn't you tell me about Ziva on the phone?"

"You couldn't have processed it all in five minutes." The words are simple, but his reasons are complex. I get the feeling he wanted Ziva to see my reaction and know that she truly is wanted here. Or maybe that's just my brain trying to rationalise Gibbs' mysterious ways.

"Go debrief Director Vance, so I can get Ziva home and take care of her." Gibbs seems unsurprised that I want her to come with me, and merely nods, glancing up at the balcony again. Vance is watching us, and I give him a small wave before heading back to Ziva's side.

Ducky has just finished examining Ziva's eye, and I ask, "How's the patient?"

"I am fine, Abby," Ziva replies quietly. "Thank you."

She's far from fine, and we all know it. Nevertheless, Ducky tells me, "She'll heal within a few weeks, my dear."

I open my mouth, but Gibbs cuts me off. "Ziva."

We turn to watch him beckoning, McGee and Tony at his side. Vance has disappeared into his office. "I'll be here," I tell Ziva, stepping aside to let her through.

She nods at me, then joins the team on their weary trudge upstairs to Vance's office. I wait until they've disappeared inside, and then glance at Ducky. "She has post-traumatic stress, doesn't she?"

Ducky sighs, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Possibly even Stockholm Syndrome. Only time will tell, I'm afraid."

"Poor Ziva," I whisper, still struggling to process the fact that she's not dead. Why can't I feel her any more, with my sixth sense or whatever it is? How far from herself is she right now, and can I bring her back? Can _anyone_?

Ducky gets a call to a crime scene, and leaves me to my thoughts with a final shoulder-squeeze. I smile after him distractedly, then make for my lab, shutting down the non-essentials and getting ready to go home. Once that's done, I return to the squad room and sit at Ziva's desk, wondering where all her stuff went when it was packed up. Maybe it's in the storage closet by interrogation. I should check.

I can't make myself leave the room again – the debriefing could be done at any minute, and I don't want Ziva to have to wait around for me. That's my logic, anyway. In reality, it's almost an hour until the team re-emerge, and by that time I have Ziva's evening all planned out.

"Done?" I ask Gibbs, signing rather than waiting until he's within earshot.

He nods, and I jump up, gathering my stuff. Ziva gives me a weary smile and nod when I ask her if she's ready to go, and I wait while she meets the eyes of each of the guys in turn, thanking them once more for the rescue. Once that's done, we make for the elevator.

Ziva is silent on the way to my car, and I don't push her. She's probably wondering what I've done with the real Abby – I'm hardly ever this quiet, usually. But right now, I don't even know what I should say, what topics I should avoid…

We're halfway to my apartment by the time she speaks. "Thank you for this, Abby. I appreciate it."

"I'm just glad you're safe," I tell her, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "We really thought you were dead…"

She gives a soft, humourless laugh. "So I heard."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" I know the answer before I ask the question, but I'll be on edge all night if I don't offer.

Ziva gazes out of the passenger window, avoiding my eyes. "Not right now."

Nodding, I return my attention to the familiar route home, and silence falls once more.

* * *

**This is a work in progress... there will be more! As if I didn't already have about six stories to finish... *grin***


	2. Simple Concepts

**Author's Note**: This chapter took forever and a day to write! This kind of subject matter is quite difficult for me to write - Ziva's feelings are pretty much canon, but the whole concept of main characters being suicidal is something I usually avoid in fandom. That's a warning, just in case anyone's squicked. This chapter's from Ziva's POV, and I am still going for a Zabby pairing, but I really doubt Ziva's mind would be in any kinda state for romance at this stage, so it'll be reading as a friendship fic for now.

* * *

**Ziva**

It is strange to see Abby so subdued. We barely speak on the drive to her apartment, although she sneaks glances at me the whole way. The atmosphere is strange – tense, and yet strangely companionable.

She unlocks her apartment door and steps back to let me enter first. While she busies herself locking up behind me, I look around her richly-decorated, cluttered apartment. I never thought I would see this place again, and the sense of unreality that I've felt since Salim's body hit the ground increases.

"Ziva?" I do not realise Abby has spoken until she touches my arm, and I try not to flinch. "Do you want juice? Coffee? Food?"

I do not want anything, except to die. Salim was to be my salvation, and he was so close… There is a thin line across my throat where his knife scored my skin, and if McGee and Tony had not intervened, he would have killed me. The way my father wanted.

The way I longed for.

"I… do not know, Abby."

Her eyes are distressed, but she masters it well. "Sit down, okay? I'm gonna run you a bubble bath."

I cannot deny that I need it: I cannot remember how long it has been since I have properly been able to clean myself up.

Now that Abby has a plan of action, she becomes purposeful, darting into the bathroom to set the bathwater running, then into the kitchen. While she rushes around, I slowly cross to the couch, sinking down onto the soft cushions. The comfort brings tears to my eyes – with the voyage of the ill-fated _Damocles_, my subsequent capture by Salim's men and the months of torture that followed, it feels as if I have not been comfortable for a lifetime.

Feeling vaguely ridiculous, I reach out and pull one of the smaller cushions towards me, pressing it to my abdomen and wrapping my arms around it. The defensive position eases my mind a little, but I do not risk closing my eyes despite the fatigue that plagues me.

Abby returns from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice, and I take it with a mumbled 'thank you', staring at the opaque liquid with something akin to fascination. I have drunk nothing but water since my capture, and only vaguely remember the taste of juice.

I take an experimental sip, while Abby continues to dart from here to there, locating bedding and comfortable nightwear for me, despite the fact that it is only around six p.m. The tangy flavour coats my tongue, stronger than I expect, and I drink it slowly, watching Abby and responding to her chatter whenever I can find an opening.

After a few minutes, she shuts off the water in the bathroom and calls me in. I walk into the candlelit room and cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm: the fragrance of aromatherapy oil fills the air, and the lighting is dim and relaxing.

"Thank you, Abby," I tell her sincerely, and she touches my arm with a smile before stepping toward the door.

"Let me know if you need anything."

Left alone, I brush my teeth with the spare brush she's left out for me, and then begin to undress. My shoulder twinges as I try to strip off my shirt, and I grit my teeth and try again. Agony flares, and I hiss a soft curse, giving up for now.

One would think that after all I have been through, this would be nothing. As it is, it is all I can do not to burst into tears. "Abby?"

After a slight pause, her voice calls through the door, "Yeah?"

"You can come in," I say, and she opens the door enough to stand in the doorway, looking at me anxiously. Forcing a smile to cover my frustration, I ask, "Would you mind helping me to get my shirt off? My shoulder is injured."

Her concern deepens, and she gives a rapid series of nods, stepping closer. "Which parts are hurt?"

Turning my back, I indicate the angle that is giving me the trouble, mentally cursing the tight shirt. After a brief hesitation to evaluate the best way of completing the task, she asks me to put my arms up over my head. "Tell me if it hurts too much, okay?"

As quickly and painlessly as she can – which is not as quickly and painlessly as I would have hoped for – she manoeuvres me out of the shirt, apologising each time I flinch. Once it is removed, I cross my arms across my breasts for modesty, feeling oddly naked despite the fact that it is only Abby here with me. "Thank you."

Abby has other concerns, however. My shoulder is a vivid mix of purple and green, and she bites her lip at the sight, wincing in sympathy. "Maybe you should go to the hospital."

I shake my head – I cannot think of anything worse right now. "I will be fine, Abby. They would only ask me to rest it."

"Then let me wash your hair," she insists, shooing me toward the tub. "You'll just hurt yourself more trying to do it yourself."

My mind stalls between conflicting desires: on the one hand, I want to be left alone to soak, without having to rely on anyone else. On the other, I want all the grime and horror of the past couple of months to be washed away, and that longing overrules my need for independence. "I would appreciate it."

Promising to return once I am settled in the tub, Abby leaves the room, taking my bloodstained, filthy shirt with her. Alone again, I strip off the rest of my clothing and step into the water, some of the tension inside me uncoiling as its warmth envelops my body. I have not properly relaxed since I rejoined Mossad, but this is as close as I am able to get to it right now.

For a few minutes I simply lie there, my eyes closed, breathing in the scented steam of the bathwater. Then I slide down to submerge my head, holding my breath and letting the water cradle my face.

From a dark corner of my brain comes the impulse to breathe in, to draw water into my lungs and finish what Salim could not. I surface with a shudder, and the warm liquid around me ripples with my disgust.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, willing the image away. If I was in my own apartment – which no longer exists – I might entertain the notion further. But I will not commit suicide in Abby's bathtub.

It would be bad manners.

The absurdity of that thought is enough to force a short, bitter laugh from my lips. To worry about manners after the past couple of months' trauma seems ridiculous.

A quiet knock calls me back down to earth, and after checking that there are enough bubbles to adequately cover me, I call, "Come in, Abby."

"How are you feeling?" she asks quietly, sitting on the edge of the tub.

"Better than I have in a while," I admit. It is true, despite the knee-jerk suicidal thoughts that invade my mind. My words are rewarded by a genuine smile. I have missed seeing it, though I had not realised it until now.

She holds up two brands of shampoo. "Orange and vanilla, or green tea and mint?"

I consider for a second. "Orange."

Abby nods as if this was a forgone conclusion, squeezing shampoo out onto her palm and shifting to sit behind me. I draw my knees up to my chest and hold them there, tilting my head back a little as she begins to lather up my hair.

I am unused to allowing anyone this far past my defences, and cannot fully relax, but her touch is gentle and soothing, and after my harsh treatment at Salim's hands it is almost restorative. "Ziva?"

"Hmm?" I tense up a little, waiting for her to demand details of what has passed these last few months.

I do not know if she has noticed the change in my body language, but she backs off. "Never mind. It can wait."

"You are shocked." I make the observation calmly, and her fingers cease massaging shampoo into my scalp.

"Of course I'm shocked. I thought you were… and now you're here, but you're…" I don't need to look up into her face to know her eyes are full of tears. "And I can't even imagine…"

"It is better that you don't, Abby." The words are out of my mouth before I realise it, and I realise that she will now only let her imagination run wilder.

With a deep breath, she begins to rinse the shampoo away, lapsing once more into silence. Once it is gone, she repeats the treatment to remove the remainder of the dust and grease, and I attempt to take her mind off things. "Tell me about the past few months."

"Tony and McGee tried to find a replacement for you, but Gibbs kept scaring them away."

A smile creeps across my face as I imagine that. "Let me guess. Every candidate was a woman."

She brightens a little, a tinge of laughter in her voice as she relates the story of each of my replacements. She has always been an expressive storyteller, and a couple of times she even coaxes a laugh from me. By the time she leaves me to scrub the rest of the desert from my skin, I almost feel human again.

Almost, but not quite. And I know that out in her living room, Abby is allowing her anxieties free rein while she waits for me to emerge from the bathroom. She and Ducky have had time to discuss my condition whilst I was in Vance's office, and the names of several psychological disorders have no doubt come up.

I cannot think about that right now. In the interests of preserving my ability to function, I have reduced my world to simple concepts:

_I am not dead._

_I am glad to be in the States right now, rather than returned to Israel._

_I plan to die._

_I must _not_ die while I am Abby's houseguest._

_The bathwater is getting cold._

Simple concepts.


	3. Weak and Weaponless

**Author's Note**: It's been a while for this one! I needed the right motivation to write it, and recently, I got it. Nothin' says exorcising personal demons like writing numb!Ziva... XD Thanks for your patience, everyone. I'll try to update quicker next time.

* * *

**Ziva**

When I emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in Abby's fluffy black bathrobe, she has laid out a simple meal on the dining table: fruit and salad, mainly. My stomach rumbles, despite my fatigue.

"Everything here is kosher, right?" she asks anxiously, and I give a hollow nod, wondering how long it has been since I have been in a position to ask myself that question.

"Yes. Thank you, Abby."

We sit together at the table in silence. While I rediscover the flavours and textures of apple, lettuce, cucumber, tomato and raw carrot, Abby picks at her food, taking about as much pleasure in the meal as I do.

It is as I feared. She is imagining too much, and no doubt much of it is accurate. I am still able to feel a little compassion, at least; I try to distract her. "I will need to buy clothing tomorrow. As much as I admire your style, it does not exactly mesh with mine."

Her easy smile reasserts itself, if a little faintly. "If you tell me what size you are, I can go out and get you some stuff," she offers.

"I will come with you," I say, shaking my head. "I think my American bank account is still open – at least, unless my father has closed it."

"Are you sure? I mean, if you wanna catch up on your sleep I don't mind…"

"I need something to occupy me," I reply. "I have been stuck indoors with no company for too long."

I do not add that it is likely that I have dropped a dress size or two since I last bought any clothing. It would only distress her.

"You just don't trust me," she teases, trying to lighten the mood, and I laugh despite myself at the thought.

"I do not think I was made for those tiny skirts you wear."

With every light-hearted word I speak, she relaxes a fraction, reassured by the emergence of my usual personality. She is not fooled; she is perfectly aware that I am at pains to put her at ease, but she chooses not to mention it. And I am glad it is working, at least in part.

It gives me something to focus on.

By the time I have finished my meal, my eyelids are heavy. It is part jetlag, part exhaustion, and although Abby offers dessert and movies as a conclusion to the evening, I decline with an apology.

"Rule number six, Ziva," Abby reproves with a shake of her head. "I get it, really. You should rest."

_Don't apologise. It's a sign of weakness._ I hear Gibbs' voice in my mind automatically, and a small part of me marvels at the fact that I have been through so much, and yet those rules are still firmly rooted within my subconscious.

It takes a few moments for the irony to strike me; for what am I right now, if not at my weakest? Caught between bitter laughter and tears, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. "If you will not allow me to apologise, then at least accept my thanks. For all of this."

She touches my uninjured shoulder lightly on her way to the kitchen. "Don't mention it. Sleep well."

Since Abby has elected to sleep in her coffin, I am to sleep in her bed; something I objected to, but chose to back down when I glimpsed the steely glint of determination in her eyes. I do not have the strength for arguments tonight.

After an hour's tossing and turning, it becomes apparent that I will get no rest under these circumstances. By now, I am used to sleeping on a thin, dirty pallet on the floor of my cell, with no pillow and only a ragged blanket to cocoon myself in. Abby's bed seems stifling, suffocating; too soft, even after I have kicked away all the bedcovers in frustration.

The only similarity between this sleeping arrangement and the last one is that I am weaponless. Whilst I was in Abby's company, I was distracted by other things, but now that I am alone again, I cannot shake this feeling of utter defencelessness.

Out in the rest of the apartment, I can faintly hear running water – the shower. Abby will be out of sight of the kitchen entryway for long enough for me to locate a knife.

My decision made, I drag myself to my feet and quietly leave Abby's bedroom, passing the closed bathroom door and making it through the living room to my destination. Moving with stealth, I survey the kitchen for potential weapons, discounting a couple of shorter, flimsy-bladed knives before locating a meat cleaver. It would not do as a throwing knife, but if I am attacked at close quarters it is the most effective weapon Abby is likely to own; it is designed specifically for slicing flesh.

The sound of the shower ceases as I contemplate the blade, and like a petty thief, I retreat to Abby's bedroom with my prize. I know she would not be comfortable with allowing me to have a weapon in my current state. She is a civilian, and would not understand.

Then again, despite his military background, I doubt that Gibbs would approve, either. The thought fills me with equal parts defiance and guilt, but I must do what I must in order to rest easy.

Stretching out atop Abby's mattress once more, I twist the knife's hilt in my fingers, getting to know its contours and its weight. It is comforting, but at the same time a memory chills me: the feel of a different blade at my throat, warmed by the Somali climate and stinging just a little as Salim shifted it slightly against my skin.

That was just moments before the gunshot that changed everything.

I am weary to the bone, sick to my stomach, and in mourning for the man whose only act of kindness toward me was to threaten my death. All I want is a few hours of blessed oblivion, and a part of me hopes that I will not wake again. And yet, the simplest of acts – merely falling asleep – is impossible, and that, on top of all I have endured, is a bitter pill to swallow.

Finally, I can take it no more. Pulling the covers off the bed, I spread them on the floor and lie down upon them, folding them over me and drawing myself into a foetal position. The knife, I conceal underneath a corner of the blanket, within easy reach.

Although still slightly more comfortable and far more secure than my vacant cell, thousands of miles away, this feels more familiar than Abby's bed. Within a few minutes, I relax enough to let the fog of sleep steal over me, and accept its embrace gratefully.


	4. Finding Faith

**Author's Note**: For Trialia, who I promised to write Zabby for aaaaages ago... XD

* * *

Shopping at the mall: a quintessential American experience, according to Tony. I have not enjoyed shopping of any kind since Tali died in Tel Aviv, killed in a suicide bomb attack at the local market.

Shrugging off my unease, I glance over at Abby. She puts a hand on my shoulder with a small smile. "Don't worry. We'll make it quick."

To my relief, my US bank account remains open and untouched, so I have funds to spare. Even so, I only want to pick up a few basics today.

Abby's attention is quickly diverted from me to a display in predominantly black and red, and I wander alone through the store, dropping underwear and socks into the cloth basket I picked up as I walked in. It does not particularly matter what they look like, as long as they are practical.

Bras, pants and shirts, however, are another matter. I do not know exactly how much weight I have lost in captivity.

Abby appears beside me, an olive green shirt in her hands. "Like it?"

It is my usual style – or what my usual style used to be, before I was captured. "Yes, I do."

Abby's expression brightens, and she holds the shirt up toward my body, studying it, and then me. "It looks about your size. I dunno, though – you should probably try it on."

Within a few more minutes, we have picked out several outfits, from jeans to blouses to t-shirts, and even pyjamas. There is too much to take into the changing area with me, according to the attendant, and so Abby waits outside, handing me the next batch as I tell her what fits and what does not. Fortunately, she does not insist that I show her each outfit as I try it on.

Pulling the curtain closed behind me, I stare into the full-length mirror. There are scratches on my face. My split lip is still only partially healed. The store attendant probably thinks that I am the victim of domestic violence.

_Enough._ Turning my back on my reflection, I loosen the belt that keeps Abby's black pants tight around my waist, then shimmy out of them. All oo soon, I realise the flaw in my plan: trying on pants does not present a problem, but wriggling into and out of many shirts is too much for my wounded shoulder.

I make the best of the situation, estimating sizes by holding the shirts up against myself. Vanity is not an issue; after all I have been through, worrying about my appearance is not a priority.

"These are the last ones," Abby says, when I re-emerge for what seems like the hundredth time. "Do you mind if I just go around the corner for a second? I have a book I wanna pick up."

"Do not worry," I tell her. "I will survive for ten minutes… if I do not become buried under piles of clothing."

With a nod and a flick of her pigtails, Abby makes for the door, and I pull the curtain of the changing cubicle closed once more. I cannot say that I am thrilled about being in the enclosed space; claustrophobia seems to be one more symptom of my current malaise. But at least this ordeal will be mercifully short.

As the final pair of pants puddles at my feet, a size too large, I resolve to eat more, no matter how small my appetite. I have dropped a dress size, perhaps even two; I cannot say for sure, but one thing I will not dispute is that I need to put on at least some weight before I can resume my daily running routine. I feel fragile and brittle, and I do not appreciate the visual reminder when I look in the mirror.

Shaking my head, I get dressed and gather the clothing that fits in my arms, abandoning the rest into the care of the attendant. While I wait for Abby, I pay for my new wardrobe without batting an eyelid at the total cost.

Abby approaches a little breathlessly as I step away from the cashier, and I get the sense that she is concealing something from me. For now, though, I am content to let her keep her secret. I would very much like to leave the curious stares of other customers behind me.

* * *

When we get back to Abby's apartment, I breathe a sigh of relief. It was good to see the sunshine and the outside world, but I cannot say the shopping trip was relaxing.

While Abby makes coffee, I return to her bedroom to change into my own clothes. A button-down blouse proves easier to put on unassisted than a t-shirt or sweater, and I am able to dress without troubling my hostess.

My makeshift pallet-bed is still where I left it; when I woke earlier this afternoon, Abby was nowhere in sight, but she had left a glass of orange juice by my side. She did not comment on my strange sleeping arrangement when I emerged into the living room, and I did not try to explain myself.

In truth, I do not know what I would say.

When I walk into the kitchen, Abby spins to take in my appearance. "Yaaaaay! You look like Ziva again!"

Although I cannot help but laugh at her enthusiasm, a part of me flinches. I might _look_ like Ziva David, Mossad Liaison Officer with NCIS… but I do not feel like her. Though I know Abby does not expect me to snap into that role, I feel as though I am no longer who I should be.

We sit on the living room couch with steaming cups of coffee, and Abby partially pulls something out from behind a cushion, her expression a little hesitant. "Okay, so I know things are really screwed up right now. But I hope this might help."

I watch, perplexed, as she draws out a jewellery box and hands it to me. When I open it, the words I was about to say die on my lips.

A Star of David pendant on a thin gold chain lies within. It is the last thing I am expecting to see, and for a moment I am frozen, remembering the moment Salim tugged mine from around my neck. He had examined the pendant – a gift from my mother – for a moment, and then tossed it aside, showing no reverence for the symbol or the faith it represents. Not that I had expected any.

"…don't know if you're as religious as you used to be, cause you've been through so much stuff, but…" I force myself back to the present, concentrating on Abby's words as I take the pendant from the box. My hands tremble a little, and I merely hold it in my palm for a moment.

"Argh! I'm sorry, Ziva… I shouldn't have overstepped. It's none of my business."

I look up, meeting her concerned gaze, and give her a smile that is only a little forced. "No, Abby. This is…" I do not know what to say. "Thank you."

She searches my expression for a moment, then nods, holding out her hand. "Wanna try it on?"

I gather my hair with my good hand, pulling it away from my neck. Abby fastens the pendant around my neck, and the metal symbol settles into place, cool against my skin.

It feels as though I have found something that I thought was lost to me; something I have missed desperately without knowing exactly what it is. My eyes fill with tears, and I bow my head, letting my hair fall around my face and praying Abby will not notice.

Of course, I cannot fool her.

"It's okay if you wanna cry." The words are quiet and undemanding, and I cannot help the sob that escapes. "Oh, Ziva."

Her arms are gentle around me, and I surrender. While she strokes my hair and murmurs words I do not hear, I let myself cry, my hand curled around the pendant at my throat.


End file.
